The Birds Keep Falling

It started three days ago.

Every morning, there’s a dead bird on my balcony.

No blood.

No broken wings.

No sign of impact.

They don’t look like they fell.

They look arranged.

Carefully. Facing the glass door.

I live on the 12th floor.

There are no trees near my building. No ledges above me. No nests.

There shouldn’t be birds up here.

But every morning, there’s one more.

And every morning, I hesitate before pulling the curtain back, because part of me already knows it will be there.

Waiting.

I haven’t slept properly in a week.

When I close my eyes, I feel the space beside my bed change.

Not move.

Not shift.

Just… fill.

Like something impossibly tall is standing there, bending slightly to fit inside my apartment.

Watching me breathe.

Last night, I heard it again.

“Po…”

Not distant like it used to be when I was eight. Not echoing from trees.

It was inside my room.

Soft.

Slow.

Almost amused.

“Po…”

There was something different in the tone.

Not hunger.

Recognition.

Like someone revisiting something they lost years ago.

I kept my eyes closed.

I told myself that if I didn’t see her, she wasn’t there.

The air grew dense. Heavy.

Then—

Movement.

Sudden.

Her hand lunged toward my face.

Abrupt. Precise.

It didn’t hesitate.

Her palm slammed over my mouth, my eyes, my nose — covering my entire face in a single motion.

My head disappeared inside her grip.

Her fingers stretched past my ears.

Too long.

Too cold.

I tried to breathe, but the air felt trapped beneath her hand.

She wasn’t squeezing.

She didn’t need to.

The gesture wasn’t meant to kill me.

It was meant to remind me.

I felt small again.

Eight years old.

Standing by the lake.

Helpless.

“Po…”

This time, it sounded closer to a whisper.

Closer to laughter.

When I forced my eyes open, I was alone.

But my bedroom door was open.

I lock it every night.

There was dirt on my floor.

Dark soil.

Still damp.

And beside my bed—

A footprint.

Long.

Narrow.

Too long to belong to anything human.

It pointed toward me.

Not toward the door.

Toward me.

This morning, there were three birds on the balcony instead of one.

Placed closer to the glass.

Almost touching it.

She’s not haunting me.

She’s conditioning me.

She waited for me to grow up.

She waited for me to believe I escaped.

She waited for me to think I was stronger now. I understand something I didn’t when I was a child.

She never lost me.

She simply decided to enjoy the process. And tonight—

I don’t think she’s coming to stand beside my bed.

I think she’s finally done waiting for me to break.